


Omo to Kitsune

by RAW_SYNTH3TICA



Category: Unbroken (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Emotion Play, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Emotionally Repressed, Haiku, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Friendship, Male Homosexuality, Male Slash, Metaphors, Military, Military Kink, One-Sided Attraction, Painplay, Period-Typical Homophobia, Physical Abuse, Power Play, Sensuality, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 22:17:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4937362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RAW_SYNTH3TICA/pseuds/RAW_SYNTH3TICA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The warden is forced to confront a particular White-Fox Demon, whom had just days before escaped his watch. He searches, alas to end his insanity & obsession over the one thing he is afraid to want, & above all, afraid to admit that it is more than a simple obsession.</p><p>*Only character/actor (between Jack O'Connell & Miyavi) likeness & similar themes have been used, no direct references or utilization of actual people & factual names besides Jack O'Connell's (hopefully fictional) character from '71'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Omo to Kitsune

**Author's Note:**

  * For [STAILS565](https://archiveofourown.org/users/STAILS565/gifts).



> ALL IS FICTIONAL & NOT MINE.  
> ever since writing the first word, i've been finding ANY excuse to not finish this fic, i'm only Slight proud because it's for STAILS565 & mostly selfdisgusted for writing it because i'm a stupid perv.

The air held secrets. It listened between the cracks of closed doors and swept through his dreams, and those dreams were not meant to be shared nor praised, only within very close inner circles. They lay behind the sternness of his clamped lips and within his right hand where he held his brush; his wrists shook from the strain of being held so still, his brow misted from unused commemoration of his dream, only then did he remember the time his father had found such records within a tome of classics and proverbs of Shinto, his father disregarded the subject as a youth's curiosity but made sure to instill him with the idea that he was to take a wife, not a lover. The fresh memory of the bruises upon his upper calves and knees gave him the slightest pause, yet the thought of buying discretion from the madams and mistresses of the Red Light District seemed riskier than writing a short lewd haiku. His wrist relaxed, the brush touched the page almost timidly, he began: 

_Merely a spirit,_

As if marking the sensual curve of a straight spine and long ridged fingers, he delicately stroked characters unto the blank white page set beneath the candle upon his study, the dream poured from his mind and unto the unsuspecting page:

 _Hardly a silhouette form,_

A beautiful memory such a body made, the agony he inflicted only to be enacted and doubled upon himself until he was in complete torment, a just punishment of yearning for someone he could never have, especially after the all-too-public affair of defiance. 

_He torments me still._

'Those eyes,' he thought to himself plainly, he stood suddenly, knocking over the ink block as he took up the bamboo staff, 'Those damned blue eyes!' 

Nothing could calm him then, no amount of calligraphy or meditation, he was under the white-demon's spell, and strangely, he felt no amount of shame as he excused himself from his officer's cabin still in full regalia, and directed two lower-ranking officers to drive him out from the camp. Undisturbed, the road stretched beneath the automobile longer than usual and so noisy that a small headache began at the crest of his temples, even while no conversation was made on behalf of the commanding officer being driven so suspiciously late into the night. He cared little of the formulated opinion the two officers had made of his odd hours, it only mattered as much as the penalty for hearsay he dealt as strictly as the punishment of unruly prisoners, fear was the tool he used more than reward. 

'He shall see himself as he truly is,' he brushed a stray strand of hair to the back of his ear as the wind picked up and the road began moving faster, 'An unremarkable corrupter.' 

At first, signs appeared along the roadside, which then led to the snaking flash of streetlights, houses speckled the outskirts of the city as did the lessening of the aforementioned signs, and the lively nighttime individuals came in spirited flocks about the local dance halls and late night bars, none interested him only that he could find those blue eyes which haunted him in the guise of sleep, so that he may slay the demon once and for all. Deeper still, the officer drove while he kept his eyes ahead; the painted women tonight were beautiful, perfect even, except they did not find the sensation of dread savory as much as he had mastered the art of heightening the emotion to near-frantic levels. Tonight, though, fear was not his wish to instill, it was obedience and order, and if he had the time: dominion. 

He knew in his heart that if he wished to once again have his sleep untroubled and ruled by the comforting blankness it promised, then he would first quench his hunger of the defiant soul whom alluded him with those cursed blue eyes. As if they could see him behind his bamboo staff, as if they beheld him with as much contempt as he laid eyes upon all whom were of lower standing, his hands tightened about the staff which he held upright from between his legs; indeed, the demon and the curse would die tonight, the terrible white-fox demon and his infernal power over his lust would be banished. All he needed to find was the den where the fox demon resided and festered within the carnal travesty in which it evoked in every man and woman it pleased; he was armed with his automatic pistol, high-grade German-made, and the bamboo cane he had so often used upon that very same fox demon he now hunted, open of abandon. 

He had never the need of chasing down fox demons, much less White fox demons, being that their power hardly swayed him and he could easily break the leash of their charms on his mind, but not this particular fox demon whom arrested him with an incontestable magic since they had first met gazes, all barriers besides those of his superbia had shattered at the accidental stare which he instantly felt compelled to, lust at first sight. Traditional legends foretold the falling of emperors, nobles, warriors, shoguns, the wisest of sages and most learned of monks whom were entrapped by the spell of the fox demon – and he had just witnessed his own despotic downfall, all the while thinking he was able to withhold the seeking of fleshly pleasures, to explore and learn different flavors of lovers. Only one called to him, sighing, looking him dead beyond the cover of his eyelids and through to his very core, where the remnants of his warrior's purity lay and breathed, the one thing that the fox demon sought to steal and destroy in the sacrificial flames of his kindled lust. 

“We're here, sir,” the driver alerted him, the other got out of the automobile and opened his door, his steadying left hand came to rest upon the vehicle's frame as his right gripped the bamboo staff's hilt, he disregarded the soldier's inquiry, “Why these pleasure quarters, sir?” 

“Park the automobile and come inside. You both are to wait until I am ready to leave,” he stated as his legs carried him up the rise of the stone walkway, the two soldiers scurried to obey at the mentioning of their passing of time in such a lavish pleasure den, he whispered under his breath upon finding his way through the parted curtains and illumination of candles instead of colored electric bulbs, “Where else am I to find this defiler of lords?” 

The madam appeared at his side, waving at this girl or that boy or that group of lewdly-twisted limbs, he declined each smiling lip, each pale courtesan, each eager boy whom dressed in bright layers and wore his hair long was pass to another client; these pretty ones were not geisha, they were simply bodies paid by the hour for pleasure. He had no problems with money, he had enough notes in his pocket to become a danna to several geisha if he so pleased, yet there again came the hunger, biting and hissing through his veins the further he pressed on, many occupied rooms had passed before he stopped at a door of western-make than the usual wood and waxed paper. His blood rushed against his ears, inside his head, along his limbs, through his heart at the sensation upon reaching his destination in the pleasure-house's basement, the Finality weighed heavily upon his shoulders, he drew an even breath as he brought his left hand to the cool brass doorknob and turned. 

Inside was a single mattress and a low table with a slow-burning lantern casting the room in ghostly light, shadows leaped from one side of the square room to the other as he knelt down upon the thick mattress, the White-fox demon was seductive even in sleep, breathing quietly and slumbering peacefully unawares of the danger which had come for revenge. Never had he once seen a Male fox demon so exquisite and scarred, as if it had worn the price of it's beauty until an angry lover had come to end it's reign of terror and sexual desire over their spurned heart; he noted the haphazardly-mended shirt where he had torn it in his blind fury, the threads were darker than the sun-bleached khaki and missing of a few insignias. The dark leather jacket lay over the sleeping body as the fox demon curled within it's own body heat, he glimpsed the bare feet and ankles which twisted around the other as if trying to fit beneath the cocoon-like cover of leather, he leaned down, his left hand upon the ground to support his upper body from disturbing the fox demon. 

Three lines, five lines, a hundred lines, a thousand lines of poetry may never come close to the sight he beheld of the young fox demon, a certain naivete bred into children at an early age resembled the softness of a peaceful dreamer; black waves of hair he ached to feel graced the demon's smooth brow, the broad nose on the demon's face seemed as delicate as it was prominent, beneath were blushing pink lips that he knew would burn were he to allow himself a taste. Poisonous magic flooded his being the longer he sat propped above the demon, drinking in the sweet air the fox demon breathed, greedily stealing images of a young demon not yet borne fully unto the art of seduction, yet was doing too well upon it's host not to learn cheap theatrics and sexual postures of a master libertine. Somewhere upon the perfect body he must find a flaw as he had usually done to dissuade his hunger, he pulled the leather gloves off from his right hand, silently as if expecting more than just the blue eyes to shoot open and ultimately meet his own in a match of wills. 

Tentatively at first, he brushed the hairless chin, the olive skin whispering against his forefinger and middle finger as the slow intake of breath gave him pause, wonder overtook his self-conscious prodding as he grew bolder, brushing a fingertip over the plush lower lip and watching the brows flutter, as if the sleeping fox demon were confused of where it suddenly felt a touch akin to a butterfly's kiss. He did not mean to be so mild with his exploration, yet finding the fox demon so compliant made his actions justly as gentle as a loving husband's; the lantern cast a moon-like glow over the fox demon's face while the pillows did little more than frame it's upper body at an angle, almost carelessly, he pulled aside the small window of cloth the unbuttoned shirt provided. His lips ached for not being weak enough to throw caution to the wind and press his tongue against the naked clavicle, he knew himself far too strong-willed and clever to fall so easily for the fox demon's charms, though unwilling and unaided it was, he still congratulated himself. 

Sleep was a luxury only children could afford, and while he slept, he was tormented by frantic terror and apprehension for either the sudden cold stab of realizing that morning had come or the violent late visits he was treated, Gary wanted to go home more than anything, even more than needing to breathe, as long as he was home in San Diego. Only with his eyes closed could he remember his modest little cottage and stuffy loving family, he could taste the warm salt in the California air, feel the breeze as it came in accompanying the western tide, he recalled the sun on his face as he lay in his family's back yard humming a radio tune while his siblings read aloud from the adventure magazine, and such a childhood he had lived unknowing of the strained relations between the countries. Yet the sun rose blamelessly, as nature intended no matter how much he wished to spend a few minutes longer suspended with the ghosts of home, how ever vivid the fantasy, it was just as fragile as the tilting balancing-beam his fear and determination stood upon. 

“Is the warden awake already?” he asked, he hated whining but even two hours of sleep stole the smoothness of his timbre and replaced it with a raspy noise, like wind lazily howling through a jagged pipe, hearing no affirmation from the bunk next to him, he turned over unto his back and swept a hand through his hair as he yawned, he opened his eyes and his lungs froze. 

“Don't make a sound,” the warden said softly, Gary's breath shuddered out from his open lips as his whole body quaked at the dawning realization, the hard tip of the warden's pistol poked the right of his ribcage, he obeyed both orders before they were spoken, fearing even to blink and look away, his mouth closed of it's own accord being that it was useless unless his warden evoked the much-welcomed screams, “Don't move.” 

The plan was perfect, it was flawless: he had finally escaped after a month of planning and preparations, he and a few others swam from Okinawa while marching along the banks, reached the bay and hid in an abandoned fishing shed, they had all slept deeply for days until dehydration forced their legs back into motion, they walked until they found an Allied supporter whom delivered them to a well-do pleasure house in a network of sympathizers where they disbursed, he stayed foolishly in the Red Light District. Not once did he believe that he would be sought out within the house's hidden lower bunker and found by the officer that made his existence a tightrope between hell and tightly-reined camaraderie, he watched the trader's ship leave port in the hopes that he could go back into camp alone and help many more escape, how wrong he was, Gary winced in apprehension over his stupidity. How so Wholly wrong he was, trusting in himself over his better judgment and putting himself at risk, he should now have been in a port in America, but here he lay: powerless, numb, caught. 

The warden towered over his body, he felt as insignificant as a single sand granule, immobile, voiceless, all thoughts of escape stolen from his mind and his strength leaving nothing but a heaviness in his limbs – there was a quiet fury boiling within his warden's eyes, he witnessed the piercing quiet before the storm – Gary could not force his eyes closed, his face blanched the longer he stared wholly at the man whom imprisoned him for an entire year. He knew he would bear the terrible bite of the bamboo staff with less silence as he had of the year before, the staff would surely rip the muscle and blacken his skin where he had barely tended them as they healed, he could already taste the gash-like thrashes against his body, the skin of his upper thigh and shoulders being the warden's most favorite and most painful of areas to exploit mercilessly. 

He fought his formless tongue in his mouth to utter a single syllable, a word, Anything which would deter the warden's punishment, to plea and cower through words which flew from his mouth in a breathless gasp, “No-” 

Surely, the warden could be dissuaded and possibly appeased of anger, but all Gary saw within the almond-shaped crescents which resembled eyes, hard and unforgiving as the surface of cold whetting stone, he could only hold the gaze as a means to predict the warden's actions, half in daze of the heat he had mistaken for warmth, and lips which held back Japanese curses for the most hated forms on earth: Americans. The man whom peered at him beneath his graceful Japanese nose was accusation enough, he knew he was in for a beating which topped all, especially the particularly cruel action where he was the personal scapegoat for the captured GIs, the potent fear and adrenaline mixed in his blood, his arms and body as taut as the thread of a bowstring, his veins vibrated and curled beneath his skin as his heart churned a terrible rhythm, almost as horribly, he noticed his warden's hand reaching down unto his naked feet and merely brushing his bruised ankle. It was a game, just another cruel game to get a rise out of him, to elicit the hellish sensations of pain to slash upon his skin and slice his nerves as if he were nothing more than another pest to be exterminated, a game which he always enjoyed the company of if not the routine, the intimacy and barbarous consideration. 

Too curiously, his eyes searched the warden's face: everything remained the same, even the angered rise in his brows, the mouth a hard line nestled between lush lips, the pomaded hair which never once fell out of place, the only action that gave away the warden's wrath was again, those sharply shadowed iris', and Gary fought the orders given upon his body, managing a slight twitch in his neck. If there was one skill he picked up while in the care of the warden, it was the lesson that his words meant even less than his cries of pain, that the contortion of his body held less significance than the gaze he held with his warden as he suffered, as he endured each lick of the staff upon his body; he poured the pleas his lips could not form into his stare. He wished the for punishments to stop, for the warden's arm to go limp and sympathy, yet both were too much of a request to wish for if not for his freedom; affixed, motionless, breathless, the healed wounds beneath his skin pulsing from the memory of their violent conception. 

Wordlessly pleading with his eyes, he only just then realized the strange sensation of the warden's gloved right hand smoothing over the visible skin beneath the unbuttoned top of his shirt, the cool whisper of the leather against his collarbone was almost too much to bear, he mouthed the word slowly, “Please...” 

His tongue swelled almost double from the extended silence, the inescapable pause, the inevitable absence of sound before the beatings – the sickening dance on agony and propriety continued – Gary lost all hope, he stared wide-eyed as the warden leaned over atop him, the pistol once more pushing like a warning against his lower ribcage, he watched as the warden gradually came face to face, the soft voice nothing more than a low utter, “Quiet.” 

The will sapped from his body, Gary nodded, he felt the very beginning of preparations being made for his routine meeting with the staff, his muscles quivered while his skin broke out in a chilly sweat, his hands laying uselessly and grasping at the pillow while his head lay atop, he shrank away from the touch of the warden's graceful fingers, sinking deeper beneath the juncture of his shielding left shoulder, as if to protect himself no matter how miniscule the cover. He retreated, lower and lower, until the numerous cushions beneath would give no more free space. The warden suddenly withdrew so swiftly that he was left in a slight daze, he watched several emotions bleed across the warden's face, at first anger, frustrated confusion, dissatisfaction and ultimately clarity; the pistol muzzle withdrew from his ribcage, and ended with the snap of the holster button, out of danger so abruptly, Gary could not help but feel lost himself, as if a moment were missing but all the same speechless of the small pocket where other events usually followed. 

“The Allies are advancing and Japanese officers are deserting their posts as we speak,” the warden whispered, the blow came with the same force as a punch to his stomach, yet he lay still disbelieving and doubting the news of his liberation; the warden's face softened as if given no choice but to relinquish claim over a precious object, the finality in the warden's voice only further cemented the fact and all the more bewildered Gary, “I will not flee. My fate was written when you looked upon me-” 

Gary at first thought nothing but white noise and just then resumed breathing, then suddenly wondered why his warden was acting in such away; did the warden mean to threaten Gary? It was very personal, yet very much without the bite of malice which was characteristic of all threats, no ultimatums, no trade offs of better circumstances, he was just being made aware of the fateful and inescapable, he could not help but simply feel helpless for his warden's pending lot in life as the embodiment of the Black Plague, especially while he had not blamed any man at all since the beginning of the war. Every man was given a job by their leaders for the good of their countries, and they functioned not unlike the deadly war machines patrolling under their hands, it was a terrible thought but it was true – no one would blame a cancer for taking a life, only the preparations made which lead to the person being taken over by the sickness – the same way that he believed of the warden, he believed that they were only performing without direction for the lesser of two evils that bedevil men under great stress: fear or disorder. 

“-And when I first saw you,” almost a caress, almost lovingly, Gary suffered a certain tenderness only meant for those whom were familiar with one another, recalling a closeness as if they were parting lovers meeting in hopes of crossing society's boundaries, the warden leaned over his tightly-twined upper body, gently brushing the dark strands aside as warm lips pressed almost softly and unnoticeable on his brow, the healed-over gash was long and ugly as it cut into his hairline from his upper left brow, upon the pulsing scar of their first meeting that he had gotten for staring at his warden so openly, “Goodbye.” 

The only word which first came to mind was a silent 'Why?' 

Nothing further to add, the warden stood in one motion, his gloved left hand reached for the bamboo cane, his prisoner's blue eyes shot instantly to his gradual actions, he knew that he should be the last person Gary trusted for the year he had made the American GIs life little more than an existence punctuated by excruciating isolation and numb agony, it was the only life a beautiful fox demon could lead if he or she were not able to find a suitable master. His lips still pulsed and burned unknowingly as Gary's touched temple had still done from the small gesture they shared, he still smelled the milky essence of soap and balmy salt of the sea from Gary's hair, his fingers held to the bamboo cane while the digits of his right hand tightened to forget the warmth and surprising tenderness of Gary's skin, being that he had never touched the fox demon with his naked hands for fear of falling deeper, harder, faster unto the spell. Shall he kiss that cursedly sweet mouth? Shall he drink in the demure scents? Shall he feel that damnably enticing body beneath his own and have his soul stolen in the process? 

He raised the cane, deeming the fox demon fit for suffering one last damning blow, one more mar upon the insufferable beauty of it's flesh, if only the cries and the bruises and the blood would kill his inhuman hunger, if only he could send this unearthly being back to the sky from where it fell in the burning of wreckage and death, amidst the most confusing and violent time the world endured. If only... 

Gary shot to his feet, only to crash at his warden's feet, his knees throbbed hotly as his arms wrapped around the slim waist of his warden, no longer did he fear the lashings – just the thought of suddenly hearing of the freedom of the men still imprisoned drained him of his terror – he was more thankful than afraid, the two words welling up in his chest and spilling out as tears breached the well of his lower lashes, “Thank you-” 

The warden felt more than heard the sobs wracking from the White-fox demon, the tremble within the small bird-like body, arms that were merely bone and wiry muscle, fingers as small as they were willful, and eyes the barest shade of evening blue stared up at him; he stood powerless against the eyes looking upon him expectantly and almost sorrowfully, he raised the cane higher as if to strike, yet heard once more the shaky voice sob, “Thank you-” 

Fox demons cared only about themselves, they are beings after their own survival, endlessly feeding their own pleasure in hopes of corrupting the world – if ever a fox demon existed she or he would never thank their jailor, much less survive without sex – he dropped the cane, the sharp echo caused no disturbance to the young man whom clutched to his waist as if he were the one whom rescued the world from war. As the world had done, the warden was at war with himself: one side urged him to beat the young soldier into submission, the other stated simply to turn around and leave and forget that anything had ever happened, the other prompted him to pull out the pistol and end the enemy where he knelt defenselessly before him. But those eyes and their secretive knowledge, always watching, never looking away only until the pain threshold had been breached, those beautiful blue eyes which belonged to the enemy of Japan, they were not those of a fox demon, but a man, and that same man whom masqueraded unknowingly as a succulent fox demon did not blink, nor did he utter useless words in a plea. 

His bare right hand reached up from swinging lax near his upper thigh, nearing to the pistol's holster, the warden watched the young soldier's face gazing up at him unblinking, his fingers found their way to the pistol, tracing the cold metal barrel before easily unclasping the single button, he silently raised the gun from it's holster, the piece hooked in his fingers before he dropped the unneeded gun and kicking it away. Still the lust raged, not as powerfully as the urge to stop the young soldier's tears, his right hand found their way underneath the hairless jawline of the upturned face, his thumb dabbed at the eyes' corners and broke the salty trails where they began, his left hand gently enclosed over the arm which twined tightly about his lower torso, the tips of his fingers stroked the black waves as a fresh tremor of sobs broke out on Gary's body. The warden again swiped the tears, tirelessly staring into the blue eyes swimming in salty waves and bleeding bitter rivers only to have his fingers sweep the tides away, he also realized then why Gary's eyes disturbed him: there lay an equal mix of determination and love only equal experienced love could instill, they never judged nor looked upon him with accusation, merely sorry for His predicament, not Gary's own. 

Those very eyes had forgiven him the first time they rested upon him, for which he had mistaken for rebelliousness.

**Author's Note:**

> this is one of those self-betraying 'Good ideas at the moment, but terrible after being put on page.' :P because, after reading some messages in my inbox recently, i realized almost stupidly while having my first shot Ever of moonshine: “Alternate universe? What a good fucking idea?!” (thank you, Junoa)  
> If you did like this oneshot, be warned that i'll write it again (maybe smuttier, my brain is one horny little bastard) because i hate leaving things half-done. Another thing, i also wrote this to vent my frustrations due to the fact that my brain (aka 'horny bastard') tends to slash while i'm trying to enjoy a movie/book/show/documentary/history channel/song/riverdance, not sorry, but oh so revolted with myself.


End file.
